‘WTF?’ is up with stupid people…

October 22, 2012

Ellen/Reid: Got back to basics, at least a little bit on homeowning side of things, this weekend; i.e. procuring another tank of propane for the grill, planting some purple-white-yellow cold-hardy pansies in the front window boxes to add a little color in the winter (makes me feel like I’m still gardening), and tidying up some paperwork although there is much, much more to go in order to make my office habitable.  More time spent at home means less time spent on the golf course and given the putrid state of my game, that’s not altogether a bad thing.

The best part of the weekend is Saturday morning.  While Felicia sleeps in, I rise-and-shine and brew up a fresh pot of French roast coffee and hit the streets about 6:45 with my go-cup.  It’s mostly the lovely sound of quiet except for the chippering song birds and a few joggers and other walkers.  Also with me is a plastic grocery store bag.  This is where I need to come clean with you guys because there must be something about old age where we develop habits that perhaps others don’t want us to develop and you two might think your old man is just a plain nut.  No one would blame you.

This goes back quite a while.  My daily walk is around the block, about two and a half miles.  For a long time I just got increasingly fed up with all the trash and junk that slobs had discarded along the route.  I wanted my walk to be cleaner, not necessarily pristine, but at least presentable.  One day I saw a can or a bottle or some other refuse and just stooped over to pick it up.

Bottom line, I just got tired of walking by other people’s trash. It’s something I could do something about.

I went another 20 yards and picked up something else.  By the end of that walk, my hands were full of litter.  It’s been that way ever since (I don’t take a bag when Felicia and I walk since I’d probably be a total embarrassment to her).  So now, I combine my solo jaunts with bagging up what total Neanderthals  toss out their car windows.  The real enemy is plastic.  Everything – paper, plastic, cans, etc. – all goes into the recycle bin.

But here’s what is really morbid.  Some days I spread my haul out on the back driveway, photograph it and take an inventory of what I scooped up; how much plastic, how much paper, how much ‘other’ and the approximate weight (right now what has been picked up and removed from the environmental chain is probably pushing 1,800 lbs. of stuff).  My hoped-for aim is a blog that would encourage people and kids to take up arms (and hands and bags) against this slobbery.  I just can’t stand the thought of all this trash being washed down into storm drains where the next stop is a river or lake somewhere, and the ocean beyond where plastic bottles and Styrofoam raft up into huge masses of gunk.

People driving down the street look at me like I am just some crazy homeless guy, but there are a few folks who repeatedly see me and thank me for doing the neighborhood a kindness.  It keeps the paths cleaner and makes me feel like I’m contributing toward some good.  But it has developed into its own sort of mania.  In part I wonder what it is we are leaving the Emma’s of the world (and that applies to your kids, too, Reid, when they come to pass).  The sum total is that my paltry effort to keep one route clean is loosely related to the much, much larger concerns of climate change, etc.  What’s truly nuts is there is always trash to be picked up.  Day-after-day.  I always come home with a full bag.  There’s never a day off.  It makes me think ‘WTF?’ is up with stupid people.

The other lunacy this weekend was switching channels when it looked like Nebraska was going to get rolled by Northwestern.  They came back, of course, and now I wear my weak-kneed Cornhusker shame much more than ever happens as I tote around my plastic bags.

Postscript: Sept. 30…

The visitation was a wonderful thing. Full of stories and laughter, nice chats with my mother's friends and our assembled family.

A couple of posts ago I whined about kicking 2011 in the butt at the stroke of midnight on Dec. 31, but am now backing away from such stupidity.

In hindsight, what has occured is a good thing.  For mom, it is release from her condition and, for believers, a reunion with her husband.  For those of us left behind, there is relief, too; for Ralph and Gayle it ends a terribly long spell spent with mom in varied nursing homes and care facilities.  For me, it ends prolonged guilt that the two of them and mom were way out there in central Nebraska with me all the way East.  A number of folks mentioned that very thing; her suffering is at a merciful end, and ours, too.

In an odd way, mourning is tougher for friends than it might be for us.  I think people struggle (I have) in their well-meaning to find the right words or the correct way to phrase their condolences.  It is just an awkard time.  Still, all of what people did say is very much appreciated.  

Much of the time that might be set aside for pure brief is waylayed by the practical matters at hand, i.e. coordinating airport pickups for Ellen and Tim, Reid, and my uncle Henry and aunt Mary and their escort, my cousin Barb from Texas.  There were meetings with a lawyer (attorneys have a strong grip on the post-death process) and financial folks who tended to our parent’s estate, to say nothing of pouring over pictures and family items so Ralph and Gayle could reclaim a sizeable portion of their basement. 

But there were a few moments when grief properly showed itself.  As is the way of visitations, my brother and I got to the funeral home two hours early to make sure preparations were in order.  Once we agreed that mom looked was we hoped she would (she did), and that there were no typos in the annoucement brochure, I found myself in an empty pew in the parlor.  That’s when events crowded in on me.  The other was during a walk in the rural country just west of Grand Island.  The third was on the second leg of the flight home.  For some reason the idea of traveling still further away from mom and dad swept over me.  I’ll have to go back once mom’s marker is in place so I can say hello to them together.

—————

September 26, 2011

Ellen/Reid: The phone was with me all weekend in the event the call would come about your grandmother.  Usually the phone is set to vibrate or silent, but this time the volume was turned up.  I find myself with this increasing sense that combines doom, inevitability and sadness.  Not a very good combination of three things.  I worry about your grandmother and what is going through her mind during these days.  What is she thinking (if she can think)?  What bothers me the most is that she is alone.  Your uncle is there often enough, but she’s still alone.  That is the big thing; she is there and I am here, leaving her to fend for herself, no one there to give her comfort as often as she needs it or could certainly use it.  It doesn’t give a very good feeling as a son to not be there with his mom.  For all these past weeks I’ve thought I would be pretty stoic about things but last night it just began to hit me that her end will come and I won’t be there to at least hold her hand.

That must be the guilt part of it seeping through.  I’m not sure what she would vocalize about it.  She’s had a rough last few years and now I second guess myself about not getting out there more often, especially over the summer once I knew her condition was slipping very rapidly.  It just makes me feel pretty shitty about things.  Now, there’s no going back and trying to make amends all over again.  There is no time.  Instead I’m down here playing golf and lolling around when I could be up there to help her out in her final moments.  It just makes me angry to think about my negligence.  The final good byes from a few weeks ago just aren’t enough.  I’m just not handling it was well as could be done.  I told John about my misgivings and doubts, and he assured me there was no right or wrong way to handle such situations, especially if the person (your grandmother) has a diminished capacity to recognize us or anyone else.  That was comforting to some degree.

The obituary is my responsibility and there’s been almost no progress on it.  In fact it hasn’t even been started.  There’s been not a lot of thinking put toward it.  It most certainly won’t be as long as your grandfather’s but when the time comes I’ll put my full creative juices into it.  Usually there’s no problem in at least mentally piecing together items like this but now there’s a big case of writer’s block.  I don’t know how to start it out and what the middle and ending parts will be.  What do you say about your mother that you haven’t already thought about on your own?  We’re about to find out.  Ralph and Gayle will most certainly edit it so I have to take that into account.  Obituaries aren’t for the family but for the circle of friends.  I’ve been looking at some in the paper here in Charlotte but there’s just no feel for how it should come together. 

Someone mentioned a few days ago that when his mother passed away, he told his sister that now the two of them, both in their 60s, were orphans.  That was an interesting way to look at things even at their age.  There’s some truth to it.  Not that it applies to either of you because you’ve been on your own for quite a while and have made you own ways, admirably so, but when your grandmother passes there won’t be a final lifeline for advice and counsel any more.  That will all be gone, just as it does for every generation.  Not to be morbid about it, but these are just the things you think about, it seems to me, when the torch is passed.  The flame doesn’t go out but it’s instead just handed off to whomever comes next. 

The phone will remain on high volume for however much time it takes for this unhappy predicament to pass.  You might stay on alert for at least a text message that a call is about to come your way.  The rest of the planning is already underway, but the call will be your sign that the plan is being put to use.

Very far very fast…

Mom has lost her mobility and eyesight, but she has her moments of lucidness. This is a tough image for me to see, but our choice is to remember her as she was, not as she is.

For the second time in the space of 15 months, my brother and I are  renewing acquaintance with hospice.  Our mother went under hospice care late last week in a small facility in Wood River.  I can’t imagine mom ever envisioned that things would come to this in a declining small town of 1,204 hidden away in central Nebraska.

The question we ask ourselves is ‘when?’ but there is no certain answer.  I don’t want there to be.  All we know for sure is that she has slipped very far very fast.

If the situation is looked at only from quality of life standpoint then what will eventually happen will be merciful.  Mom is thankfully in no real pain, there is no known disease present beyond the numerous small strokes that have accumulated to bring her to this sorry stage of life.  She has simply no more gas in her tank.  Even so, I told Ellen and Reid on the phone and by letter that we don’t know what she is thinking but we know that she is thinking.  Her facial expressions – a nice smile or a knowing roll of her eyes – is evidence enough that she still processes a sizable portion of what she hears. My time with her last weekend was devoted to stroking her hair, talking to her about the old times when we were growing up as kids, and watching her green eyes.  There’s still some life there.  It’s just that we don’t know how much.

My brother and I have had pretty much the same muted reaction to the long goodbye.  It is some mixture of stoicism and relief (for her).  If mom has taught us yet another lesson, it is to get the most out of what we have left, too, but that when our own end stage of life arrives, neither of us wants anything dragged out.  If there is a plug to be pulled, the kids can kiss me on the forehead then yank the cord.

—————

August 30, 2011

Ellen/Reid: It was a pretty melancholy trip to Nebraska these last four days.  As you can imagine, it’s tough to watch your grandmother deteriorate over such a short span of time.  Everyone, and I got caught up in it too, tries the guessing game of how much longer she will be among us, but it’s not up to anyone beyond the higher source who will make that determination in due time.

Mom in late April of this year. I wasn't prepared for how quickly her condition had changed. This is the image I will keep.

I really wasn’t prepared for the difference between last spring and now.  She has just gone downhill so rapidly.  She’s not ambulatory in any way.  There is no more walking let alone sitting up without significant assistance.  But you know, she can look up at you with those green eyes and you can tell that she is absorbing information to the degree that she can.  I spent a lot of timing just looking into her eyes, stroking her hair, and watching for her reactions.  If you say something funny she’ll roll her eyes and maybe nod her head approvingly.  Sentences or a short string of words are tough to come by for her and at most she can get out a couple of labored ideas but you have to be listening attentively.  What warmed my heart was she distinctly asked “how are the little ones”, and when I gave her the updates about you two knuckleheads she would roll her eyes approvingly or smile.  That was incredible.  If I hear no other words from her, at least I have her final ones: “I love you” (along with “Drive safely”).  She can also give you a little kiss on the cheek, and before I left her room I made sure to get a couple of those.

She spends almost all her time by herself.  When the staff puts her in her wheelchair, they roll her out into the common room where the TV is attuned to whatever it is the staff wants to watch.  She can’t see far enough, let alone hear the TV, to make much of a difference.  But at least she’s out among ‘em and whatever that is worth is okay.  None of us really knows what is going through her mind, and perhaps she’s taking more away from “As The World Turns” or whatever soap or news program they have on, than we know.  I hope she is.

Your uncle and I have decided that when the time comes, hospice will come to her instead of her to it.  That’s how we did it with your grandfather last summer and that worked out just fine (given the circumstances).  She’s not in any particular pain or discomfort, other than the same prone position in bed or sitting in her wheelchair, so there’s not much necessary in terms of pain meds or anything of that order.  In some very major ways, that’s a blessing.  She does wince a bit when she wants to roll over or move, but that’s to be expected.  You’d do the same if you were in the same position 24/7.  Our layman’s view is that we seem to think she’s just running out of gas, pure and simple.  Like your grandfather, her appetite is mostly gone and they keep her going with a few sips of protein drink since she cannot feed herself or really chew solid food.  But she still has those green eyes and you can see something going on behind them.  She’s trying to hold her own and keep on keeping on as best she can.

When I left her Sunday afternoon, I wondered if this was the final goodbye.  I’m relatively at peace with things; her husband is gone, she’s incapacitated and she’s largely in no pain, she knows her kin have largely done okay and that her job as a parent is fulfilled in a good way.  I suppose what we should do is remember her as she was, not as she is.  There is no other way to approach it.  Life has taken its turn with her.  She’s had a good one and now is the time for it to end.  It was great that you both had a chance to say something in her ear on the phone.  She would respond and smile as you both took turns.   That’s when I knew I could leave her on good terms for the both of us.

About my twin and his town…

My brother called early last week.   He advised the time was now – right now – to visit mom, perhaps for the final time, and make plans for what will possibly occur in the next few months.   It made for a rough four day weekend in central Nebraska.  What a hell of a 14 months since our dad passed away.

Barb’s health and mobility have undergone a notable and steady decline; a non-reversable process that had greatly accelerated since my visit in the spring.  I was saddened beyond words at how fast her health had tumbled in the space of a few months.  Professionals in a better spot than us to estimate such things place the end-of-life time frame before year’s end.

The whole situation was covered in this week”s letter to Ellen and Reid; that note and some photos won’t be posted, however, until next week.

But even in the face of my mother’s predicament, this week is about my twin and his town.

My brother does taxi duty from the airport. He's a good guy - for a lawyer.

My brother, Ralph, has been attorney-like throughout much of our mother’s decline.  He’s has managed her finances, paid the bills, talked to the doctors, and kept her company.  It was at his insistence that mom was moved from Omaha to be near him.  That he lives in Grand Island (mom is in a care facility about 15 miles west in Wood River) doesn’t hurt.

Grand Island (GI) is a nice enough place.  A good spot to raise his family (wife Gayle and two sons – also lawyers – Andy and Joe).  He’s been an incredibly successful member of the bar, and don’t buy his ‘aw-shucks-I’m-just-a-country-lawyer” song and dance.  His clients apparently know where to send their checks.

A 102 car Union Pacific train breezes through Grand Island. I counted one train with 129 cars - literally one mile long. Most trains shuttle Wyoming coal to eastern power stations.

I took several long walks for the alone-time and just to see what drives the engine in my bro’s prosperous little burg of 70,000.  This chunk of Nebraska, and most of the environs around Grand Island, are table top flat.  If there was any elevation gain during my 3-4 mile jaunts, it was measured in the few feet of rise and fall as my path along the road momentarily elevated as it crossed twin sets of tracks that are Union Pacific’s major East-West rail artery.  The tracks run plum through the middle of Grand Island.  Incessant whistles warn motorists of the coming tonnage, but there is no stopping, and no slowing down.  Every 15 minutes, another unimaginably long train – the car count of one zephyr headed West: 129 – rumbles through town at just over 50 mph.

Ralph makes his money as you would expect in a small town.  Everyone knows everyone else’s business, and they bring their business to him.  Much of it is from Latinos, most of whom were drawn to town to work in the packing plants but they’ve spread their wings with all sorts of small businesses.  About one-third of GI‘s population is Latino or Hispanic and they’ve turned the

Dual signage on most buildings signals Grand Island's acceptance of its Latino population.

economic tide upward in central Nebraska and the town has had to adapt to a bilingual culture.  The Latino community is a portion of Ralph’s client base in part because he’s a Democrat in a very Red State and in part because he treats them fairly and with respect.  I don’t know what he does for fun when he’s not pushing paper since he doesn’t golf.  He played softball for decades but injury-riddled guys like him became an annuity program for orthopedic surgeons; he’s active in his church so that’s where a lot of his time goes.

The town chafes at its second-class status even in a small state like Nebraska.  But as I’ve told Ralph many times, locals still have high speed Internet, first-run movies, jets to whisk them out of town, a Best Buy and the same satellite/cable channels as anyone else, plus a Starbucks where the staff is incredibly friendly and polite.

All roads don't lead to Grand Island. They just sort of skirt it. But Hwy. 2 into the Sand Hills is the real deal.

GI sort of embraces its pioneer past, and real cowboys are seen throughout the city, mostly in the stores where they can buy goods they can’t get as cheaply in hamlets such as Loup City, Ord or Broken Bow (just northwest of GI along Hwy. 2 in Nebraska’s wonderful Sand Hills.  It’s a paradise for bikers and a shortcut to Sturgis).

The town formally celebrates its Western past at the Stuhr Museum of the Prairie Pioneer.   It is situated along Hwy. 281 across from Ralph’s house.   The high point is a resident bison (buffalo to the rest of us) and old period buildings that look the pioneer part.  I walked from Ralph’s house across 281, hopped a short fence,

A dust bath isn't such a bad gig for a bison on a hot day in Nebraska. My presence was a non-event for the beast.

and in a few minutes was next to the bison empoundment.  The big guy (or girl, since I couldn’t know for sure because it never stood) was rolling in a dust hole to rid itself of annoying bugs.  He/she saw parasites as more of a threat than my nearby presence.

Grand Island has been a good enough spot for my brother.  It has fulfilled all his needs, and then some.  As for me, I’m not sure I could live there.  It’s a nice place to visit but if he wasn’t there and if mom wasn’t close by, then Hwy. 2 would be the best, and fastest, route through town to points West.

———————

August 22, 2011

Ellen/Reid: The paper said this morning that we have to keep an eye on a developing hurricane that could be headed this way toward the end of the week.  What that would mean here is plenty of rain and some gnarly winds, maybe.  They tend to publish the hurricane forecasts but in my time here there’s only been one that pushed its way this far into the Piedmont, and it dumped a lot of moisture on us for a couple of days.  It’ll be worse over by the coast; that we’re inland about three hours doesn’t hurt us too much.

Your mom said there’s an apparent buyer for the house on South Shore.  That’s been a while coming.  That was a good spot for you guys vis a vis that point in your lives.  Plenty of room, nice yard, good location.  I told her I miss poking around in the yard (there’s a difference between poking around in the yard and heavy duty yard work) and I suppose where I am now is a direct anti-yard reaction to maintaining that big spread.  What I liked most about it was the garden and the deck and I recall you (mostly you, Reid) grilling with buddies and just hanging out.  We all just kind of dissolved away from that place so its sale isn’t that wrenching.  But I do miss elements of it.

It looks as if we can unfortunately begin to see the final miles of the long downhill road for your grandmother.  When I got up Saturday morning there was a voicemail from your uncle that came in just after midnight local time.  I knew that could mean no good.  He and I talked a fair amount that morning and the consensus among the doctors is that the event is not imminent but that it isn’t that far off, either.  The predictions range from three to six months although there’s no certainty to any of that.  It’s the None of us can really know what’s going through her mind right now.  I wonder how she’s handling all of it or if she can piece together the events of the past three or four years.  Mom and dad only came down here once and that was enough to know to enjoy them while they are still here and have all or most of their abilities.  Your aunt and uncle have borne the lion’s share of the duties and for that I am grateful.  It would be great to be out there much more often, and right now I’m figuring out a way to visit Grand Island in the pretty near future.  The whole situation brings up a lot of emotions held over from last year with your grandfather.  It’s a mixture of sadness, and to some degree, hopefulness that she won’t suffer like he did.  I just wish we knew with any degree of certainty that she wasn’t in any major discomfort or mental anguish.  That’s all I want to be assured of.  It does make one fast forward to their own end-of-days and I need to get off the snide and get my legal stuff in order so you two don’t have to worry about that aspect of things when the inevitable time arrives.  I’m trying to stave off the early grieving process.  It’s hard for anyone to truly know how to react in these circumstances.  We’ll just have to do the best we can and remember her as she was, not as she is.  As news develops you will know pretty quickly.

My friend in Des Moines, Brian the Harley rider, and his girlfriend Nancy were injured on the way to Sturgis when their Ultra blew a tire at highway speeds on I-90 in South Dakota and flipped several times.  The highway patrol said their injuries weren’t life threatening but he doesn’t remember her and he’s still in the hospital.  She has some facial injuries.  Lucky they were wearing helmets.  In that respect they were fortunate because a lot of riders don’t make it through those crashes.  Many folks ditch their helmets once they get in South Dakota since it’s not a helmet state.  We wear ours all the time, even when we ride in South Carolina.  Felicia has taken a sudden aversion to riding on the Interstate although I think its way safer than the twisty two lane roads down here.  You can never say never, but I’ve always been a defensive sort for the most part.

Okay, over and out.  Talk to you soon, be good, work but have fun.  Reid, I will make T-Day plane plans this week.

I want to be back in Wyoming…

The Wind Rivers. The Bridger Wilderness takes up a sizeable chunk of the Winds. For what my group of backpackers accomplished, there's no better spot in the Lower 48.

I want to be back in Wyoming. 

It is still a fairly pristine place, at least once you hit the back country.  Amazingly, the crowds stick to Jackson and Yellowstone and avoid stubbing their toes on the rougher trails of the Bridger.  The local downside is the smog – reported to be worst than L.A. in the colder months – that is confined to Pinedale and buts up against the western slope of the Wind Rivers.  Just west and southwest of town are many dozens, if not hundreds, of natural gas drilling rigs that emit gases as a byproduct of forcing trapped natural gas to the surface.  Pinedale itself is loaded with energy roughnecks; Felicia and I got into a hotel elevator with a couple of them on the Saturday night before we hit the trailhead.  Each was armed with a case of fortifying Budweiser.  They weren’t looking at me.  There’s no denying, for better or worse, they are the new breed of Western man.

Still, there is something about traipsing around in the wilderness.  The Bridger is just as I remember it after all the times there (which never get old); scenery that is beautiful and majestic beyond description and perhaps the best throughout the Rockies, rugged but not penal hiking, fishing that virtually assures a fresh catch for dinner, and enough wild animal lore to make your hair stand on end around the campfire.  My little band of hikers had grizzly-itis; that’s why we all ponied up $40 for canisters of bear spray that never remotely saw a chance for use.  We never saw signs of bears, nor heard the wolves that have gravitated into the lower end of the Wind Rivers, and didn’t spot any slow-footed moose which were my one prediction of wildlife we might catch unawares.

Yours truly on the trail. 60 lbs. felt like 70 lbs., then 80 lbs. by the time the trek was done.

There were a passel of photos taken but none by me.  I’ll work to engineer all of the artwork on a single site and when that happens, you’ll see why I gush so much about this place.

I claim to be a Wyoman, although technically speaking it might be a shirttail relationship.  My twin brother and I were conceived in Sundance (a much bypassed little hamlet up on I-90 that is largely a pit stop for cars headed west to Yellowstone or east to South Dakota and Minnesota) but the doctors in Deadwood, SD told our mother that the delivery would be difficult, and that what passed for a hospital wasn’t perhaps the best spot for such a situation.  ‘Why not head to Denver or Rapid City?’ was their counsel.  Instead, mom boarded the train across southern South Dakota and northern Nebraska enroute east to Omaha where her folks lived.  That’s were the delivery took place; days later we were back in Sundance.  Dad stayed put; he was the assistant editor of the Crook County News and Sundance Times.  Maybe the best job he ever had he always said; now Sundance is better known for the burnouts associated with the nearby Sturgis motorcycle (i.e. Harley) rally.  That, and Devil’s Tower is a couple of miles away to the northwest.  My birth certificate may say Nebraska but my heart says the Cowboy State.

I want to be back in Wyoming.  It won’t happen soon enough for me, but there’s always the week of July 22, 2012, if you catch my drift.

———–

August 2, 2011

Ellen/Reid: If gauging how tired one is by the amount of sleep they get after backpacking, than I am one tired old dog.  Have been sleeping like a proverbial rock.  I’m afraid my best days on the trail are way, way behind me.  It was amazing to watch the young guard steam ahead on the paths while I seemed to be dragging a plow.  My hips never hurt so much in my entire life.  My gait was tentative and labored.  Ellen, you did a great job considering this was your first time.  You carried a fair amount of weight but did yourself proud.  The Cleghorns really have to be feeling the pinch right about now.  They pushed on to Yellowstone and didn’t return to CLT until late Sunday night.  The girls are probably still in bed.  What a trip for them it was.  Reid, you’d of no doubt caught way more fish than your ham-handed dad.  I lost more fish through sheer folly, including one 12-14 incher, than were actually landed.  I love seeing the brookies and cutthroats come up to the fly.  Beautiful fish, and they are quite tasty, too.  It’s good that people got a chance to eat the fresh catch; brookies are the best tasting of the stream trout.  Ellen, it was simply amazing to watch Tim cast his line.  I’ve never seen such artistry and was unaware that my flyrod could be cast like that.  His called shot of the big fish behind a rock – that he caught in one fluttery attempt – makes me feel like a novice.  That boy can fish with the best of ‘em.

It’s sad to know that a trip so long in the planning is already over and done with.  I tried to soak in as much of the scenery and experience as much as I could but a lot of the views are just plain over my head, literally and figuratively.  It’s too much grandeur for this guy to absorb at one time.  The trip turned out far better than could have been anticipated.  The weather was sterling, the people got along pretty well, the food was okay, and the hiking was great.  They say that you have a tough time remembering pain, and already I’m noodling about a return trip next year.  Worth adopting would be Tom’s approach to going light.  He only carried about 20 lbs. vs. my 60 or so.  That makes a tremendous difference in fatigue and energy, all of which were in short supply for our over-laden group.  But next year, not sure of trekking in the same route but the Bridger is very hard to beat, except for the mosquitoes of course.  If we’d stayed up even a couple more days we surely would’ve lost someone to blood loss.  I’ve never seen, felt and swatted so many mosquitoes.  All day long, no less.  That owes to the amount of snow pack and runoff.  Reid, there were little pools everywhere that festered the winged mob.  It was curious to not see any bats flitting around to snatch them.  Perhaps they were already full of such bugs.  It would’ve killed Felicia to be up there because she has very adverse reactions to mosquito bites.  We would’ve had to carry her down on a litter.  As it was, she seemed to have a good time driving around the Tetons and Yellowstone. 

Reid, great photo of the McCartney concert at Wrigley.  You’ve sure made the rounds on the concert circuit up there.  Good for you.  You sounded great on the phone this past weekend.  Nice spring in your step.  Even your mother noticed.  On the other hand, you could be sweltering in Charlotte on what seems like a never-ending heat-a-thon of humidity and triple digit heat indexes.  I don’t care for it one bit.  How the locals ever come to accept it is beyond me.

Looks like it will be Minneapolis for T-Day.  Reid, I’ll pick up your ticket so let’s knock heads on that sooner rather than later.  I’ll plan to get up there on Wednesday.  Ellen, there is a chance that Felicia might join us, and in that case we’ll opt for a hotel close to you guys.  You’d have your hands more than full with three visiting adults on top of Tim, you and Mr. Henry.  Reid and I reserve the right to cook Thanksgiving dinner before we snooze on the chairs watching football.  Really excited to see the kitchen in all its glory.  That must be a huge relief to know that it’s all but finished.  That will really boost the value of your home.  Can’t wait to see it.  If either of you have no other Christmas plans, you’re welcome down South.  It’s been a while since you set foot in these parts.  But enough for today.  Love you both, and will see you soon enough.

A compendium of small things…

Some weeks its just hard to find something to pontificate on in the fatherly sense.  It could be accurately chalked up to a lack of strong coffee or that nothing reveals itself at the moment of creative conception.  I am ramping up on red-red-red North Carolina politics that set our state back, our shunning of environmental issues and the like but nothing has jelled as of yet.  So I fall back on my PB days (the Pre-Betsy admonition to write something of depth so as to be of interest to her that in tandem would show my personality to the kids) and thus a letter becomes a compendium of the small things that went on the week before.

Last weeks letter was a definite throwback to the PB days.

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June 6, 2011

Ellen/Reid: Well, if you like heat and humidity this is the place for you.  Blast furnace hot but damp at the same time.  Go figure.

Here’s the update on Felicia.  Her surgery is set for the end of this month.  That nearly 30 day delay would absolutely drive me more bonkers than I already am.  Why in the world they wait that long on such a terrible disease is totally unfathomable to me.  I lectured her this weekend, more than once, to call her physician’s office this morning to see if she can light a fire under the operating doctor so we’ll see if that does any good.  There was a related article this morning in the paper about some new drugs specific to melanoma.  Advances, yes, but not a cure.  This comes at a time when she’s wrestling with other issues in her life, notably her son who has veered onto another path she’d rather he not take.  I don’t know.  I’m glad you guys are who you are, but it is very hard to see her have to endure another bout of the same situation she has already endured for years.  I’d rather that she take the time to tend to herself but the mother’s instinct to nurture, or at least care for, her offspring is awfully strong.  She needs to worry about herself for a change.  I plan to be with her at the surgery and be available for whatever else she needs between now and then.

Ellen, I’ll need to tap into your teaching expertise in the next couple of weeks.  My class on freelance writing is filling up at the local community college (it will probably top out at about a dozen or 16 students) and I’m starting to get nervous about it.  It’s not the content that is vexing but the presentation of things.  The class will be in a high-tech lab setting loaded with capabilities for PowerPoints and other sort of splashy gizmos.  My class outline is done but that’s all it is; an outline.  I’ll head over to the college later this week to familiarize myself with the ins and outs of the learning laboratory.  They say to teach is to learn twice so maybe that’s good.  All in all, this probably is something of an odd time for freelancers.  The pay scale has dropped like a stone (at least in the newspaper biz) but the availability of work is probably pretty good in that in this economy firms may not keep full time staff but instead farm the work out depending on their situational needs.

Your uncle lifted his cell phone to your grandmother’s ear this weekend but I couldn’t understand much of what she said beyond “I love you, too.”  I just don’t know what to make of it.  I wish I could be there a lot more often.  Her health seems to have stabilized for the time being.  I’m dependent on your uncle’s reportage of what’s going on and he’s around her often enough he sees the ebb and flow to her situation but he’s not sounding any alarms as of late.  It looks as if Joe is going to buy your grandparent’s house.  I have some mixed feelings about it, largely because he’s being influenced by your aunt and uncle (the house design is a bit staid by young person’s standards, I would think).  He’ll get a sweetheart deal on the house but I suppose when you do the math in terms of what it might sell for minus the real estate agent’s commission it’s probably not that bad an overly bad thing.  Joe and Ally will have their baby at the end of this month.  Ralph and Gayle are pretty excited about it.  Their third grandchild.  Guys, I’m in no rush.

That’s about it for this installment.  Working out for Wyoming (there’s a long way to go physically) and just trying to keep cool in this oppressive heat.  Reid, the offer of a ticket to CLT still stands, and Ellen, watch for news about a trip up to see your swanky new kitchen.  The pix of the gutted interior are cool, but for your sake I hope the contractors get a move on so you don’t have to live in a pile of dust and debris all summer.  An end-of-June timetable seems nice.  I hope they can live up to those terms.

No sunrise service or holiday ham…

It's the small things that count. The nursing home staff in Wood River do mom's hair once or twice a week. Her lucid moments may be few but when they occur, she is the mother I remember.

You’ve seen no letters to my mother in the past few months.  None has been sent.  Part of it is family dissuation, part is her new address and, moreover, a new staff who would have to be instructed to do the reading.  I was in Nebraska for Easter but there was no sunrise service or holiday ham.   Instead, the time was spent alone with her.  She has her moments of clarity and you can see the gleam in her eye when certain topics – her beloved golf (“I was good at it”) for example – are mentioned.

Her situation is a persistent topic among Ellen and Reid.  Last summer remains fresh for them. They don’t want to miss their chances.

——————–

April 25, 2011

Ellen/Reid: It seems like the trip to Grand Island, and more importantly, to Wood River, did not happen.  I was hardly on the ground long enough to catch my breath.  It was scarcely 48 hours from start to finish.

Your grandmother is doing okay.  She looked much better than I anticipated, and her mental cognizance was a little bit better than was anticipated, too.  She’s at a spot called Good Samaritan in Wood River, which as a town is nothing more than a wide spot on Highway 30 about 15 miles west of Grand Island.  The Union Pacific’s main East-West line is only about 20 yards from the highway so that gives you the history of Wood River right there.  Time, and the trains, have both passed it by.

But it is a good spot for her.  The staff is very caring, her hair was done nicely and someone had bothered to paint her nails.  It was obvious someone had paid attention to her.  Your uncle and I went straight there from the GI airport and the whole lot of them, about a dozen or 15, had been herded into the TV room although it was hard to see if anyone was really watching the tube.  Your grandmother wasn’t.  Her head was down but she was alert, and after a few seconds, she seemed excited to see the two of us.  She wasn’t quite sure who I was right off but then the light bulb turned on and you could see it in her eyes.

It is very hard to watch her slip away.  When you think about it, not even nine months ago she was ambulatory and much more conversant even if she had a lot of anger.  There is none of that now.  She’s confined to a wheelchair and her walker remains folded up against the wall.  She wears the same pair of shoes she’s worn for more than two years now.  She seems so much more balanced at this point, not because she’s sedated into silence, but her meds are much more attuned to her needs.  Your uncle found a doctor in GI who took the time to review all the dosages, removed some and put her on others and that has made an incredible difference for her.  As you look around the room at the other seniors, it’s not so much a quality of life issue as it is simply making the best of the days you have left.

Money will be an issue for her.  She’s running out of it.  It is incredible what even a little joint stuck in a backwater in the boonies of Nebraska costs month in and month out.  Your uncle, bless his heart, has had to bear the entirety of writing checks, and it appears that she will move yet again, this time to the Vet Center on the north side of Grand Island.  The cost won’t be so high, and her medications will be taken care of.  Honestly, it is really a matter of letting things take their course.  Moving to a high-end, beautifully designed spot wouldn’t amount to much for her because there are so many people at the Vet’s Home and so few staff.  She just won’t get the attention.  As long as she is clean and well fed, that is what matters.  Your uncle sees her every day, and that is about as much human interaction as she can handle.  I saw her three times out there, and on the final time I wondered if this might be the last time.  She perked up when the conversation turned to golf, and she said it always came easy to her.  That’s as conversant as she’d been.  She tries so hard to put two and two together, but being able to have some give and take just doesn’t work very well.  None of us really knows how she processes things.  I just want her to be comfortable and secure.

Felicia picked me up at the airport and it was good to get back to some normalcy.  Your uncle is encouraging me to make another visit sometime in June and I’ll probably do that.  I hope she can last that long.  But she knows we love her and she said the same.  That’s all I needed to hear.

My friend Mort…

My friend Mort and I go way back.  Way back.  Back as in college days.  Mort lives but a stones throw away in Atlanta and I’ve scratched my head wondering why it took so long to write him. 

But in the spirit of better late than never, Mort indeed got his first letter from me last week.  He is an incredibly creative writer who loves Nebraska’s Sand Hills even more than me (read chapters of  Ghost Dance at http://churnhead.blogspot.com).  He works hard at a craft the rest of us can dabble with at best.

———————

January 6, 2011

Mort: How is it that we have both ended up in the southland, you for more years than me but in roughly the same place and stage of our “careers”?   I still pinch myself – a form of self-abuse, I guess – many days wondering how the hell this has all come to pass.

I’m not one to overly beef about it, but as a recent convert to the “it is what it is” way of thinking, I can’t help but think of the daily reminder that is chief, but not the only factor, that keeps me here: the weather map.  It is just a hell of a lot nicer down here, on balance, than we might be experiencing back in the heartland.  I keep reminding Ellen and Reid that – rubbing it in, really – when it is 60F here it is likely -10F there.  You said the other day my blood must be getting thinner, but is there a way to make that happen to the rest of me, too?

There has to be a way to get you and Mike back down here.  Hill has to be going nuts, and taking Leann with him, as he twiddles his thumbs up there.  What would it take him to get to ATL?  A strong day and a half, max, to reach you?  Then it’s the short jaunt over here.  On my oath, I swear you would have separate rooms with clean sheets.  This is the sort of pilgrimage the two of you ought to make.  That, or I save you the gas – petrol and/or Mike’s gas – by jaunting over your way.  You make the call.  I can go either way.

I’m glad you liked the reference to the Sandhills.  The pioneers were probably smart to set up shop all those years ago near a source of water, the Platte, but if they’d only plunked Grand Island on the map a bit further to the north than that would’ve met my needs all that much better.  Pretty short-sighted on their part.  Must be the wind-swept appeal of those hills.  Kind of like New York; not sure I want to live there but I sure like to visit although a spot up that way could be fairly palatable if you had the right amenities like running water and Wi-fi.  A golf course within hailing distance would be a plus, too.  That round up by Chadron was one of the more memorable I’ve had although I can do without bunking at Ft. Robinson.  Have you read John Janovy’s book Keith County Journal?  Or was that you that turned me on to it?  Either way, it’s a good descriptor of that portion of the country.

On that score, I think you should plow ahead at flank speed with your book.  That you started it at all is sort of Lao-tzu – a journey of a thousand miles starts with the first step.  It’s just a matter of finishing.  I’ve been following that writer’s group you got me onto enough to know that the self-help stuff a lot of them promote is okay but hardly up to your standards.  There’s always room for a good oater.  Besides, you’ve come this far and there are lots of self-publishing situations that can help you bring it to fruition.  It’s all going online and e-book anyway.  I would volunteer as the necessary second set of eyes, and no doubt Hill would too, if he’s not already.

As for me, I’ll be content to trundle into the office every day and get done what needs to get done.  The last few months have been an epiphany on the work scene.  Some days I wonder about the long-term but then I look in the mirror and realize it’s me that needs to adapt and change.  I’ll keep the blog up and going since it is one of the few creative outlets at my disposal.  Readership is picking up bit by bit and that’s good enough for me.

Well, as Walkin and Mayeux used to say, it’s time to sign off.  Really, you and Mike butt heads and see what you can muster in terms of you coming here or me going there.  Either way, it is high time I got a chance to see you ruffians and to hear your old yarns.  Emphasis on the old.

Stewards of whatever is left…

Those little specks in the distance are wild turkeys west of Grand Island. For once it would be nice if a cell phone camera had a zoom lens.

I do like Nebraska and the plains states.  I don’t care much for those who don’t when they opt to despoil the countryside and roadways with their castaway bottles and assorted trash.

If there is one thing (among many) I want the kids to be, it is caring stewards of whatever is left of their environment.  It is well and good to have a big picture view of smokestacks and global issues, but on a day in, day out basis it is up to them as individuals to care for their little corners of the world.  Last week’s letter has a veiled reference to such social responsibility.

——————–

December 28, 2010

Ellen/Reid: It’s lucky that we were able to travel at all after Christmas.  By sheer luck I asked a gate agent if there was room on a connector to Atlanta.  There was, and she stuck me in first class no less.  If I’d gone on to Cincinnati as I was perfectly comfortable doing, I would’ve met Ohio’s residency requirement by now.  Although I walked in the door about 2:00 a.m., it beat sleeping in some airport or a fleabag hotel.  Ellen, it was good you and Tim got to head west.

It was a good enough time in Grand Island.  Got to spend a lot of time with your grandmother.  The trips to see her were really snippets of time predicated on her ability to have guests; a half hour here, two hours there.  She just seems in a much better spot, physically and mentally, then she would’ve been had she stayed in Omaha.  But even so, she has slipped markedly.  Her mobility has all but collapsed.  Even last July she would zip around Lakeside.  Now, it’s everything she can do to stand and mosey behind her walker.  The tooth thing really threw her for a loop.  Your uncle says he thought she might die from the infection.  She cannot feed herself and, like your grandfather, she’s just not eating very much.  All her food is minced almost to puree status.  It’s hard to watch but she seems so even and happy.

Her memory is as you would expect.  I think she has purposefully shied away from what happened this summer.  She burst into tears several times as she criticized herself for forgetting her husband had passed away.  She asked me several times if her brother, my uncle Henry, was still with us.  I assured her he was but not a minute or two later she would ask me again.  It is just the degenerative nature of her disease.  It was humbling, and a little numbing, to watch her go through this although when you look at the other women at her care center, she is in much, much better shape.  It is a hell of a thing to lose your mind.  It was sad to know that for most of their lives, these women had been wives and mothers and lived active, involved existences.  Now, they are simply running out the string.  Your uncle thinks that mom might have a year or so.  It’s not for me to hazard a guess.

The rest of the time was fine, too.  I tried to be a good guest.  I made my bed and said the food was good.  The high points, beyond having some time with your uncle, were my walks in the country.  A quarter mile from their house and you’re in the sticks.  I really liked that.  There’s something about walking along a gravel road.  There was no noise beyond the wind whipping through cedars and the incessant tooting of the mile-long Union Pacific coal trains not far to the north.  Trains trudging east are laden with Wyoming coal, those headed west are empty and moving fast.  I watched for deer and wildlife and came across a field where, not 25 yards from me, were at least 100 wild turkeys foraging on spilt corn.  Because this part of Nebraska is in the Platte River flyway, there were lots of “V” formations of thousands of honking geese and ducks.  These are the wild birds, not the semi-tame Canadians that live year-round on golf courses and shit on the fairways.  A couple of times I walked into the adjacent corn fields trying to kick up a pheasant (unsuccessfully) in the weeds along the fencerows.  The only downer were dozens of plastic bottles and containers tossed aside by half-wit rural bozos.  I half-threatened to take a garbage bag with me to clean up their recyclable mess.  I wished, too, I’d been about 30 miles due north where the Sand Hills begin.  Now that would be a walk on the wild side.  When I was much younger and in running shape, I gave some serious thought about running the length of the state from southeast to northwest.  It would be a wonderful walk now.  The Sand Hills are special to me.

This morning I am in the office.  It is nearly barren of people and I’m trying to get some work done in relative peace.  Nice not to get inundated with endless piles of e-mail.  That can wait until next week.  And thanks for the incredible calendar.  It will replace the golf version on my cube wall.

God’s Country…

The better part of a week in central Nebraska without access to a PC meant no new posts prior to the Christmas weekend.  In some ways that was good; it spared you from more holiday e-mail and it let me walk through the Nebraska countryside.  The locals call it God’s Country.  That it is.

It was relaxing to traipse the gravel roads west of Grand Island for four to six miles at a time.  GI is smack in the middle of the Platte River fly-way, a major north-south thoroughfare for waterfowl even though the river flows west to east.  Wild geese made long snaking Vees in the sky as they looked for some farmer’s field at which to dine.  My quiet daily treks (when I wasn’t visiting mom) allowed me to sneak up on unsuspecting mega-flocks of turkeys (100 or more less than 20 yards from me in one field of cut corn) and deer.

It is a good place and a good place to reflect on what happened the week before, and the chance to see mom was worth every ounce of effort to get there.  The kids will read all about it in today’s letter.

—————-

December 20, 2010

Ellen/Reid: Last week capped off what has been an up-and-down year.  Slowly, the word of the re-hire has seeped out to people I know and I’ve heard from a few.

I’m still a little bit numb.  Rather than jump and down, I just sort of sat in a daze for a little while to think about what has gone by the boards this past year.  Friday night I was very tired, exhausted, and that might be the residue of just holding things back, or holding them in.  For whatever reason I just melted into the couch and zoned out with the TV on.  It was that way most of the weekend, just exhaling a stadium-sized sigh of relief.

But I got up all perky this morning and rarin’ to go.  I’ve taken the work laptop home (Working From Home they call it) although I’m not one to work from home per se.  It just doesn’t seem like real work to me.  Gotta have a real desk for that to happen.

As of yet I don’t know all the details about what it is I will do.  I know who I report to and the general parameters of the job and that’s about it.  The details will have to suffice.  Most of this came down after I sent a personal note to the guy I reported to at the moment, along with another note to the woman in HR, the gist of which was I would like to stay at the bank and the idea of correspondence to customers was sort of in my wheelhouse.  They took things from there and the vibe wasn’t too bad on their end although was with most things you never really feel 100% sure.  This all comes at a time when others aren’t as fortunate as me in that the bank is letting go quite a few people, so I’m fortunate in that regard.  As a practical matter this new gig will fit me a fair amount better than what I’d been doing before.

I suppose this is something of a testament to attitude.  Mine was good and what went on in the past stayed in the past.  I just focused on the moment and the task at hand.  That’s the only way to move ahead with things.  As you both heard some time back there is no earthly use to being sour about the hand you’ve been dealt.  Maybe as you get older you learn to even things out over time.  Perhaps that is what occurred.  But once things were behind me that is where they stayed.  Even if it had not panned out as it had it was the only way to get on with it.

What I have thought about is what I would, or will, do differently in this new situation.  I was already a team player to the nth degree.  I think what I need to do is have the expectations nailed down to the floorboards.  That’s the only way you can know for certain what you will do and how you are supposed to do it.  I do know for sure that the idea of talking to the boss once a quarter on a formal basis isn’t nearly enough.  I’ve got to shelve some of my own issues for the betterment of the cause but you can’t be milquetoast about things, either.  In some ways you have to be appropriately vocal or you’ll get steamrolled.  Reid, that probably applies in a lot of ways to your thoughts about media, etc., that you tell us.  You have to figure out a way to make sure the higher-ups and influencers at the agency get to see your thought patterns.  If I knew how to make that happen I wouldn’t have been in the situation I was but there has to be a way to create a strong voice within the organization.  You have cards to play, that’s for sure.

I’m still hopeful of heading west to see your grandmother.  She’s battling every day and sounds 750% better than she did just a few weeks ago.  You guys have a great Christmas in all aspects; eat, sleep, and be Merry.